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01/07/09 - (1)
And All That Good Stuff
Then, one morning, longer ago than long or ago, At his old-standby café of least resistance, After four of his fellow regulars in high crimes and misdemeanors Wished him, individually, "Happy New Year's, Cecil, And all that good stuff!" he broke, cracked.
To say the paroxysmal fit he suffered overwhelmed him Would not do his verbal berserkery justice. His lips became the muzzles of his tongue's Gatling gun, Which peppered all the tables, booths, walls, diners With an incessant spray of screaming expletives, scatology.
And all his buddies could do was wince, duck for cover, Desperate to avoid being riddled, ripped to shreds, by his lead, Left for dead, in the wake of his ballistic display. "Son-of-a-bitch! What's eatin' Cecil?" "Holy shit! Cecil's postal!" "What the fuck set Cecil off?" "Piss! Cees's gone off his La-Z-Boy!"
Before the police, fire, and EMT functionaries could arrive, Subdue him, with tranquilizer and stun guns, Restrain him, in a straitjacket, shackle his ankles, gag him, Cecil Harklesroad managed to shoot off fifty "And all that good stuff"s — A diseased mantra, inflaming the demons of his demented soul.
For years, decades, the regulars, as well as curious pilgrims, Frequenting John Jasper's Café Kept hyperbolizing the implosive explosion of Cecil Harklesroad, Until the "Breakfast Massacre" became local legend, myth, epic, On the order of the Odyssey, Superman...and all that good stuff.
01/07/09 - (1)
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